


Lost in Space

by Lightning_Strikes_Again



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adrenaline Rush (AR) AU Meets Canonverse, Appearances from Samuel and Colleen Holt, Drama, F/M, Human Lotor meets Alien Emperor Lotor, Lotura - Freeform, Nov4ForLotor, Post-season 6 shenanigans, Sincline is potentially sentient, Suspense, Zonerva
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27388531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Strikes_Again/pseuds/Lightning_Strikes_Again
Summary: Earth is dying. Lotor Dalir, Allura Singh, and other engineers are brought in to assist with Project LEGACY, an international initiative to reach the Alpha Centauri star system. But they soon discover that humanity hasn't developed warp technology. They're just borrowing it...from a strange alien ship, with an oddly familiar pilot.Inspired by Netflix’s Lost in Space. Posted for Nov4ForLotor 2020.Part of theAdrenaline Rush Alternate Universe (AR-AU) Collection.
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: Adrenaline Rush Alternate Universe (AR-AU) Stories





	Lost in Space

Lotor Dalir lowered his cigarette, his blue eyes narrowing. “You jest.” His velvet voice was rough from smoke, turning downward in a deadpan. “No human can fly that quickly across the universe. How would you even accomplish reaching Alpha Centauri?”

“The technology is classified.” The stone-faced commander sat before him, pushing a manila folder. “If you want to learn more, then you need to accept this assignment and fill out the paperwork. Inside are your access codes to our systems, along with your security clearance badge…if you think you can handle it.”

A pause.

Lotor spun his lit cigarette, leaning back in the booth. He tilted his head, measuring up the commander. “I’m merely a motorcycle mechanic with an eye for the sky,” he murmured lightly. “Why such faith in me?”

The commander—a burly man with an eye patch, named Iverson—crossed his arms. “Your design skills are unparalleled,” he retorted, but there was something uneasy in him, as if he were deflecting. “And your understanding of quintessence injection is needed for the engines we’ll need to sustain flight through a hypergate. Your mother and father will be working on this project as well for that reason, and they have already accepted this post.”

The manila folder carried a printed name on it.

_Project LEGACY._

Lotor dragged on his cigarette, his eyes never leaving Iverson. He breathed out in something of a wry smile. The white of the smoke blended in with the straggling white locks down his cheeks. He was tired. It was already midnight. “You must know, I do not play nice with my parents. Perhaps you would be better off with them. They are already used to military fancies.”

“There _will_ be others on this project,” Iverson deadpanned. “Some of them are even your corporate competition. But we have to put old rivalries behind us, for the greater good. Do you understand?”

He ran a hand through his wild hair, leaning his elbow on the table. “What greater good is that, Commander Iverson? Do tell, for very little would inspire me to work side-by-side with my father.”

Iverson’s face pulled with a frown. “Are you aware of the increasing food supply shortages?”

“Of course.”

The Commander hesitated, then leaned forward. “Let’s just say, we’re at a point where we need other options. The pollution from the meteor…damaged things. This planet in the Alpha Centauri system—it offers an atmosphere that is 98 percent similar to Earth. If we can establish a second colony, then we might be able to preserve the human race before Earth declines further.”

Lotor lowered his sharp wrist, snuffing the cigarette in the nearby ashtray. Its smoke wafted up into air, which carried additional haze from the devastating meteor that had crashed months ago in Russia. His face was tight, but he raised his chin almost haughtily. “The governments have assured that our recycling technologies and purification systems are healing the Earth. Are you suggesting, Commander, that the world government has _lied_?”

And Commander Iverson fell silent. He pushed the folder forward again, then said, “Just…consider the offer. You have 24 hours.”

* * *

On the far side of the continent, one Allura Singh stood over a desk in a large government facility, her eyes tired as she looked over various schematics she’d begun to sketch, with the title Project LEGACY on the top of each. “This doesn’t make sense,” she murmured, her alto voice tight. “The sheer physics needed to pierce through space-time is…beyond me.”

“You don’t have to understand it,” came a gentle, kind voice in the form of Commander Samuel Holt. “We just need your help to build an enclosing structure around our technology.” He approached her, pointing to the schematic. “Here and here, we’ll need port junctions for—”

“—No,” she said, looking up. Her blue and purple eyes were hard with concern. “I need to access that classified technology if I’m to marry an _entire_ ship with it.”

The man laughed nervously. “Yes, well. Ah, maybe another time. Today is not…a good day.”

“And why not?” she demanded curiously. “You promised me when I signed on that I would be able to see it.”

“Well, ah…” Samuel Holt was a soft-spoken man, more of an engineer and teacher himself than his military counterparts. He wore simple clothes and kept his brown hair long. He even _looked_ nervous, which was quite strange for a Commander.

Allura went on the move. She stepped forward, raising her chin and giving him a hard look. “You’re asking me to build a starship to send families halfway across the universe, sir. I very much need to know the details of your technology to avoid many, many problems.”

Sam pressed his lips together. “…Just work on your schematics,” he finally said, his voice straining. “When the time is right, I’ll be able to share that information with you, to perfect your designs. But you must understand, Miss Singh.” He swallowed hard. “This…technology is very dangerous. To show it to you is to potentially endanger your life.”

The woman leaned back against the desk. She crossed her arms, a quizzical twist to her brow. “Then if it is so dangerous, why use it to transport families?”

He hesitated. “The technology is controllable. And our time on this planet, as you know, is limited. I simply mean that the technology itself is caustic to those who are unprepared for it. There are many things at stake for those who come in physical contact. And we need to see your schematics first for the larger housing before we discuss further details.”

She made a face at him. 

Commander Holt gave her a pat on the shoulder. “But you’re doing great work,” he said, his voice lifting up. “I trust my daughter Katie when she says you’re a brilliant mind. And your understanding of quintessence may yet give us the appropriate engine for sustaining warp speed.”

“Quintessence?” she echoed. She dared to quirk a brow, her face tightening. “I do know quite a bit of it, yes. But surely, you must know that the Dalir family of Iran holds many patents over it—even more than me.”

Holt turned away. He began to walk off. “Don’t worry about that!” he called. “They’re already on their way!”

And Allura’s fingers tightened into her jacket. Her eyes widened, and a damnable skip disrupted her heart. “Truly? _They_ , as in more than one?”

“Of course,” Holt called over his shoulder. “I hope all that business about you and Lotor Dalir was just media talk! Because we’re all going to work very closely together in the coming months!”

The woman fell silent then, biting her lip. A flush appeared over her face, and she turned away. She rather awkwardly grabbed for her schematics.

And in her mind’s eye, she recalled the warmth of Lotor Dalir’s hands stroking down her hips and the soft of his lips as he kissed her cheek, murmuring, “ _Don’t worry, love. I have you_.” His hand had swept up between her legs, sliding along the silk of her panties, pressing in with those long fingers of his—

Allura’s breath hitched.

She sat down in her chair, picking up her sketching pencil to finish her schematic of the Legacy—a great ship that would harbor various family-based starships, designed to land on Alpha Centauri’s habitable planet.

She crossed her legs, tight. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. And then she made a noise between great apprehension and elation at the thought of seeing the infamous Lotor Dalir again—for better or worse. It seemed whenever he was around, she always lost something of hers. Her sense, her hair ties…

She wondered what she would lose this time.

It delighted her to think about getting lost with him, in the very starship she was building—finding dark corners to pick back up where they left off, to leave a dying world behind—

With great effort, she managed to force her pencil back down to paper, sketching out the exterior of the Legacy in hopes that she wouldn’t get herself kicked off the project. “This will have to be built in orbit,” she muttered to herself, trying to get her head back in the game.

She certainly was _not_ going to lose her new job.

* * *

The government facility housing Allura Singh stood within a great complex at the edge of the manmade island of Olkarion. Its dark towers and windows appeared as little more than the usual labs and testing facilities used by astronauts for generations.

But deep in the basements was a lead-lined vault, with a hazard symbol emblazoned in red across every door and every wall. The lights flickered on occasion from power surges.

Commander Samuel Holt hesitantly walked down the hallways, holding a phone to his ear as if it were a lifeline. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve not had the opportunity to check on things in the middle of onboarding—”

“— _I don’t care what you’re doing_ ,” came the rough snap. “ _We’re losing our connection to the pilot. You’re the only one who can fix it and get it to calm down_.”

“It’s…technically a he,” Holt said, voice hesitant. “And did you check the vitals? Is he in pain again? The print readouts of his synaptic functions always disrupt if he’s—”

“— _No, the damn thing’s gone mad again. A violent rage. Nearly destroyed its own constraints and our MIND LINK._ ”

The man paused in his steps, looking pale. “I’ve—I’ve called for Lotor Dalir. It’s very possible that he might have better luck…communicating with the pilot than we have. For obvious reasons. I’m afraid I can do no more at this point without further upsetting the pilot.”

And as he walked, the windows to the inner vault flashed with the sight of sharp, alien metal.

* * *

A day passed before the infamous Lotor Dalir appeared at the government facility, sweeping through in a dark button-down shirt and jeans, his blue and orange leather jacket gleaming in the light. His white hair flickered behind him as he walked, pushing up his sunglasses to peer into the facility curiously. “No sign of father,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

And then he turned a bend in the grand lobby, only to see Zarkon Dalir hunched over a counter. Lotor face-faulted.

_Spoke too soon._

His father was a hulking figure of a man, wearing what looked to be close to military fatigues, his salt and pepper hair slicked back. His expression was that of exhaustion, and when he turned his face to Lotor, his scarred face took on a grimace. “Son,” he greeted, voice strained.

Lotor eyed him up and down, curiosity raising his brow. For all his general distain of being in the same room as his father, he hid it well. “What do they have you doing, I wonder? And what will they have for me?”

The older man hesitated. “Your mother and I—we were…glad that you have been brought onto this project.”

“Are you?” Lotor challenged. His security clearance dangled from a lanyard down his neck, glimmering in the fluorescent lights. He lightly flicked it. “I do believe you were close to disowning me on several occasions. Can you even be seen with me without a grimace.”

Zarkon’s face tightened, and his aged hands—hard with callouses, bearing grease from work—clenched.

The two men stood in the hallway in a standoff.

And then Lotor sighed. “Fear not, father,” he said, his velvet voice turning with a pained distain. “I shall not disappoint you or mother in my work.” And then he brushed past his father, not bothering to ask him about his work or the engine grease on his hands. The air around his father carried a metallic tinge—and something of fire, which suggested he was experimenting with quintessence and engines.

In walking by, Lotor failed to notice that his security clearance was much higher than his father’s. But the discrepancy did not go unnoticed by Zarkon himself.

The older man narrowed his dark eyes, looking down at his own tag, and then staring at his son as he walked by through the increased security—to doors that neither Zarkon nor Honerva could access.

He called out, his deep voice straining, “Your mother is here with me, in the Research and Development department. An A2 clearance.”

Lotor paused at that. He dared to look down at his own tag, which boast an A1 clearance. His white brows knitted together.

Zarkon stepped forward, continuing, “The daughter of Alfor is here as well, A2 clearance. How is it that you are different than us?”

The security tag was small in his hands. He allowed it to slip back down against his chest, and he turned, pulling off his sunglasses. His wide lips began to stretch. “Well, well. I suppose if you knew that, you’d have an A1 clearance.” And he continued on. 

But he ran a hand through his hair to slick it back, the merriment slipping from his face in an anxiety.

His heart had skipped at the mention of one Allura Singh, with whom he had a rather complicated history. In his mind’s eye, he could still feel the heat of her body, the unsteady puff of her breath against his shoulder—and then the cold of the bed, after she’d left him. His expression unsettled, and he bit his lip.

No matter how many times he told himself that it had all been superficial anyway, it still sent a dart of pain, to remember sitting alone on the edge of that hotel bed, staring at the door in want for Allura Singh to return—knowing that she wouldn’t. 

The man awkwardly readjusted his jacket and cleared his throat at the sight of the R&D doors and security. There were no windows into the facility, but he could feel it—the pressure of her presence. It began as a tingle on his skin, raising up into goose-bumps. His heart pounded as he looked to the doors where two security officers stood with expressionless faces.

Allura Singh. So close, but always so far away…

Lotor walked past, his eyes focused on the hallways beyond Research and Development, to the ones marked as the entrance to A1. His tall figure inspired a few passing workers to stare at him oddly, as if they had seen a ghost of some kind. He paid them no mind, assuming they were easily star-struck by celebrities.

The doors to A1 hallways were even more heavily guarded than those for A2. The guards were no longer wearing friendly suits and carrying tasers—these instead wore military-grade Kevlar and helmets, carrying heavy assault rifles with armor-piercing rounds strapped across their chests.

Lotor’s brow flew up at the sight. He instinctively pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and spun it between his fingers, ignoring the No Smoking signs above. “Hn. Whatever are we hiding behind this door? This seems rather overkill for a multi-government project.” He leaned forward in conspiratorial play. “If all enemies are now working together to save the world, what secrets do you protect?”

The guards looked at him, then looked at each other in mild panic. The reaction didn’t seem to make sense for such highly trained military combatants.

Lotor narrowed his blues eyes curiously. “Or perhaps this is all for show,” he murmured, voice in a downturn, pulling back to light his cigarette.

At that time, the doors behind the guards slid open to reveal a particularly unassuming and somewhat hippie-ish man, with a security tag across his neck labeled A1. His brown eyes lit in relief at the sight of Lotor. “Ah,” he said, stepping forward, holding out his hand. “Mr. Lotor Dalir, I am so glad you could make it today. Iverson was uncertain about your arrival. I’m Samuel Holt.”

Lotor inhaled on the cigarette, breathing out a stream of white smoke, testing the boundaries of what he could get away with in such a government facility. He moved to shake the man’s hand.

In doing so, he felt the same unnatural tinge of one who had been exposed to the fumes of quintessence. But it sent a chill down his spine, for it felt different somehow. More concentrated. More like…a living thing, snaking off the skin of Samuel Holt.

“May I ask,” Lotor murmured, voice straining, “why I’m here? I saw my father in the lobby—you should know that my skills are primarily like his. Engineering, innovation…” 

The older man had kind, worried eyes. “I’m aware of your skillset, and I do hope that you might assist in the A2 research and development realm soon. However, we’ve a very special task for you first.” He turned to the side, motioning to the elevator behind the A1 doors. “Step in, and I can explain more on our way to your work station.”

Lotor eyed him, then followed silently, his curiosity rising to even greater heights. He stepped into the elevator, which seemed to buzz with a similar presence of concentrated quintessence.

The instant the doors closed, they began to descend. Lotor blinked in surprise, pulling his cigarette from his mouth.

Samuel Holt cleared his throat. “What you’re about to see, Mr. Dalir, is a matter demanding exceptional sensitivity and discretion. You were asking Commander Iverson the other day about our warp technology? And, ah, the short answer is that we still need help…deciphering it.”

Lotor’s expression twisted slightly. “Deciphering?”

They were _still_ descending.

Holt nervously scratched his throat. “Yes. It’s not in our language, and we feel you are the best possible candidate for unraveling this code.”

“Not in _our_ language?” Lotor leaned against the elevator railings, spinning his cigarette between his fingers. There was a nervous tick in him now. He did not like to be caged in small areas without control—the elevator was still descending. “And pray tell, how deep does your facility go?”

The older man hesitated. “We had to build an underground facility surrounded by lead and concrete, to decrease the energy signature of the…ah, warp technology. We fear what could happen if it is sensed by the outside.”

Lotor deadpanned, his velvet voice catching in even greater curiosity and anxiety. “I do not understand. You’ve already a conglomerate of workers from nearly every country. What would it matter?”

“That’s the thing, Mr. Dalir.” He cleared his throat. The elevator began to slow, dinging in warning, with a hazard sign appearing on its digital screen. Holt moved forward to punch in his own access codes. “This technology is not of Earth.”

“…What?”

Holt turned to him. The kindness in his eyes was riddled with a deep seriousness. “What you’re about to see may be disturbing. But it answers a very important question we’ve been asking for millennia. And the answer, Mr. Dalir, is that we’re not alone in this universe.”

And the doors opened, and suddenly Lotor found himself staring at a biohazard sign dripping in red paint, with a small group of individuals wearing HAZMAT suits crossing the hallway. He began to pale, and he turned to Holt. “Am I…in danger here?”

“No. You’re not going to enter the hangar housing the technology. I’m taking you to a well-fortified office, where you’ll access everything you need from the computers there.”

Lotor followed the man, his eyes wide as he walked along. He caught sight of some people pushing carts of blood vials and medical tools. Wires.

Weapons.

As they walked along, the dark hallway sprouted windows. Samuel Holt’s voice raised with a tension. “You were right, you know, when you told Iverson that hypergates were impossible according to our current understanding of science. But it seems our intergalactic neighbors have already cracked the code, and are actively using it.” He pointed his finger. “This ship you’re about to see contains the warp technology that we’ll use to reach Alpha Centauri.”

Lotor stepped before the bullet-proof window, and he pulled his cigarette from his mouth in awe. He looked at Sam Holt, his jaw dropping. Then he looked back at the window.

Before him stretched a great metal beast, its eye sockets glowing a dim purple, with ongoing quintessence motes rising up into the air. It was not a ship at all, but something that reminded him of old mecha comics.

It barely fit into the hangar, its sharp shoulder scraping against the ceiling.

Lotor’s eyes froze on the alien tail-whip, which was strapped down like the rest of the mecha. “What is this?” he breathed, an alarm growing in him. He stepped back from the window, eyeing Holt with fear and consternation. “You mean to tell me that this is…an alien ship.”

The older man nodded. “It’s made of a metal that does not exist on our current Periodic Table of Elements,” he confessed. “What you’re looking at is our first alien contact in human history.”

“How did this happen?” Lotor demanded, voice strained. He looked back at the window. There were great tarps tossed upon the mecha in strange areas. The more he looked, the more he realized that the mecha was damaged. Its right leg was twisted backwards. Its hip junctions were gapped, suggesting that the ship had once been severed there. Half of the mecha’s face and shoulder was crunched in. “Was it a crash landing of some sort? How did you end up with these remains?”

Sam swallowed hard. “We were asked to take it in for analysis. The meteor—the one that damaged our environment and nearly obliterated Russia? This ship _was_ that meteor, crash-landing at speeds well past anything we’ve ever seen. It’s why our asteroid surveillance programs failed so spectacularly, because one minute, space was empty and we were safe. And the next, this…pilot had crashed out of some rip in space-time, hurtling toward us.”

“A pilot?”

There was a pause. Sam nodded, his aged face growing increasingly stressed.

Lotor snuffed his cigarette against the metal frame of the window, his handsome face turning in anxiety. “Did this pilot…survive the crash?”

“Yes, in ways. We’ve been learning his anatomical structure and synaptic systems. He—it’s certainly a he—is a carbon-based cellular lifeform, of a somewhat…disturbing appearance. A vertebrate with an endoskeleton. We’re not sure of his history, only that whatever made him crash-landed into our Earth was likely a very high-energy beam. The blast damages on his ship and his armor suggest there was some kind of targeted warfare.” The older man wrung his hands. “We believe he is of a warrior class, as a result.”

Lotor’s eyes narrowed. “So when you meant that I would be needed to _decipher_ something…?”

Samuel Holt looked pained. “We’ve attempted to back-engineer the technology on this ship, but it’s too advanced. Our technology and knowledge is limited, which means we must use the same warp drive from this ship in order to save our own people and reach Alpha Centauri. If we can’t understand how to _build_ a warp drive of our own, then we need to understand how to use one. Just like how most people walk around, not understanding the circuity of their smartphone.” He hesitated. “There are many reasons why we all feel you are our best hope for deciphering the language of this being and uncovering this information.”

“What reasons are those?” Lotor demanded. “I’m not a xenobiologist. I’m not a linguist. I’m a—” His velvet voice broke in hilarity. “I may enjoy a good puzzle or language, but at the end of the day, I’m merely a mechanic. Why have you chosen me for this?” He quirked a brow. 

A team of medical workers pushed by, carrying another cart of blood vails, chattering among themselves—until they caught sight of Lotor Dalir. They froze briefly, and then continued forward, as if haunted, looking back at him occasionally and whispering.

The man pressed his lips together—and then ignored the question entirely. “We’ve managed to establish a synaptic link to the brain of the pilot.” He began to move forward, still worried. “The pilot’s mind is still in a constant state of over-stimulation, as if whatever struck him disrupted his usual neurotransmitters. We’ve struggled to heal him, but we _are_ able to construct rudimentary code from his memory, using brief electrical stimulus. The output is a stream of symbols that don’t match with any Earth language.” He waved to a nearby door, with a name plate of Lotor Dalir already glimmering from the side panel. “We’ve collected an entire library of output code. We just need you to review these symbols and crack their meaning. It’s very possible that we might be able to access a memory of the pilot using the warp technology, and obtain our answer.” 

Lotor stared at him, his expression carrying a sense of loss. He could feel the walls closing in and then expanding out, as if he were suddenly a very small point in a very vast universe. He bit his lip, and then asked carefully, “Would I have access to this…pilot? To speak with him?”

Sam’s face tightened. “I’m afraid he’s not in a position to speak. The sophistication of his hyoid bone would suggest he _can_ speak. But he’s….violent and confused when awakened. We keep him largely sedated.”

Within the cockpit of the mecha was a male pilot, restrained in his seat. He was a tall, humanoid-looking alien, his strange armor half-blasted from him, his hands locked impossibly tight upon controls before him. His strange, reptilian eyes stared blankly ahead as the wires hanging from his purple temples converted synaptic pulses to alien script streaming across a nearby computer screen…He breathed out in exhaustion, closing his eyes and turning his head to reveal the burned half of his face, still bandaged and dotted with blood.

His clawed fingers, bearing great scars, twitched against the controls. 

* * *

Soon, Lotor Dalir found himself sitting at a large desk, surrounded by computer monitors flashing various symbols in streams. The office was sleek and modern, with no windows. He sat down in consternation—that any of it was real. That the stream of alien symbols were real. That his A1 clearance tag was real.

“Aliens,” he murmured to himself, his voice shaking slightly. “That’s a new one.” He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Right.”

He grabbed for a pen and a pad of paper, puzzling up at the three computer screens before him. Like this, it all felt like a dream. He reached forward, quickly attempting to learn the software so that he could slow the speed of the recorded data streams.

The output, true to Holt’s word, read as alien symbols that somewhat reminded Lotor of ancient runes, the symbols jagged with twists in the lines. Some of the symbols repeated. 

He began the arduous process of attempting to draw each unique symbol over the course of the next hour, inspecting the symbols themselves. “You have a somewhat violent language, don’t you,” he murmured to the alien who could not hear him. “I see why they think you a warrior. No doubt, your world’s culture is in part dictated by these symbols.” They were harsh lines with quick angles. Rough.

Efficient.

Lotor attempted to mimic the symbols as best as he could, his white brow puzzling. A few symbols carried artful spirals. “But perhaps your kind were not always violent?”

He drew, almost cathartically. No matter how strange the world became, a good old pen and paper never failed him. Or left him waiting alone…He cleared his throat. “Or—other maybe these circular symbols are a recent addition, as a result of some conquest and intermingling of languages. I could see that as well.”

Suddenly, Lotor’s mind recalled Allura Singh looking up at him and giggling innocently. “ _Moosh-moosh-am? That’s such a silly term of endearment. But I do love it_.”

The pen clenched tighter in his hand. That old ache, every time he thought of her, rose up. He swallowed hard, pressing his lips together. He looked down at his phone, which still carried her number and a link to her Stumblr account.

And then the man groaned. “Ngh.” He set down the pen and ran a hand down his face. For as handsome as he was, he appeared haggard and aged, his face unsettling in a raw pain. His white hair straggled down his cheeks as he stared at his notes.

“ _I’ll see you at seven, moosh-moosh-am_ ,” he’d murmured to her, releasing her fingers. It’d been the last time he’d touched her. “ _We’ll continue what we started_.”

She’d gleamed up at him, with those big innocent eyes that gleamed with a hint of mischief. “ _Shouldn’t you ask a girl for dinner before all that, sir?_ ”

“ _Do you **want** dinner, love_?”

“ _Of course. The dumpy fast food joint down the street_ ,” she’d declared happily. “ _No need for decorum—they have the best veggie burgers in Olkarion city, and I do believe they have regular meat for men like you_.”

His eyebrows had flown up. “ _A fast food joint_?” He’d smiled at her in awe and delight, for she was as rich as he, and yet she demanded so little. “ _Very well. I shall see you there_.”

But he’d sat at a booth for an hour, munching anxiously on French fries, waiting for a white bun to flounce through the front doors, disguised with sunglasses and simple clothes as he was.

He’d eventually realized Allura wasn’t coming.

Suddenly, his heart twisted so hard at the knowledge that Allura Singh was above him in the A2 rooms, that he nearly forgot he was working to decipher an alien language.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice straining, “your language is not sharp with violence, but with pain.” And he forced himself to refocus on the symbols. His eyes narrowed at them.

He soon boasted an entire alphabet of every unique symbol, amounting up to 42 characters. “The answer to life, the universe, and everything,” he muttered in a wry amusement, staring at them with discomfort.

For all of his education, the symbols still meant nothing to him. It increased his frustration as to why he was there at all.

He suddenly set down the pad of paper and pushed the button on the office phone to call Samuel Holt. “I need to see him,” he said, voice halted. “This alien. The characters appear in patterns, yes, but I cannot make sense of those patterns without at least identifying common ground with one of our own languages. Body language, anything.”

There was a pause before Commander Samuel Holt said, his voice crackling in, “The alien is unable to speak without resorting to violence.”

“I’m willing to take a risk,” Lotor retorted. “No doubt, you have him restrained anyway.”

Holt hesitated.

Lotor pushed, “If you wanted a linguist, you should have hired one.” His voice caught. “I’m doing the best I can, and this is what I need to continue this strange task you’ve asked of me.”

Holt’s voice quieted. “And the symbols? They don’t appear…familiar to you in any way?”

“How could they possibly be familiar?”

“…Never mind.” There was another pause. “We’ll lessen his sedation so you can try talking to him, and we’ll increase his physical restraints. But you should know, Mr. Dalir, that the alien has not spoken an identifiable syllable to any of us. And his appearance and violent reactions may greatly disturb you.”

“…My father is Zarkon Dalir,” he deadpanned. “Nothing can disturb me more.”

* * *

Allura Singh looked up from her work mat, her issued jumpsuit streaked with grease. Her eyes focused upon the doors to see one Zarkon Dalir return to his work at another station. “Did you happen to find Commander Holt?” she called out in anticipation.

Dark eyes, almost red, flickered over to her. “Yes,” came the flat response. “But he is not available.”

The A2 hangar contained an old space shuttle, billowing up to the ceiling. Allura and Zarkon had managed so far to direct the space engineers to remove the RS-25 engine, and now the two of them were inspecting its capacity for variable quintessence injection to support greater travel lengths.

The engine dwarfed all of them, looming well above their heads and casting great shadows upon Allura.

Her face fell in disappointment, and she sat back on the mat, sighing. “We need to speak with him. These struts will not sustain integrity under the pressure of quintessence injection.” She turned to her schematics on the mat beside her, brushing a loose white curl of hair behind her ear—and streaking her cheek with grease in doing so. “And in order to perform any actual experiment, we need to make these adjustments. Which means we need his approval first.”

The man kneeled down on the other side of the engine. In the distance, the voice of Honerva Dalir lilted over, where she was speaking Russian to a few of the engineers, interrogating them lightly regarding the build and design of the overall shuttle. Zarkon’s eyes slid to her, roving over her in concern. She sat in a wheelchair, her IV bag attached to it. Her skin looked ashen, as if she were already wearing down. He closed his eyes, then sighed. “Commander Holt is with my son, who has arrived.”

Allura fell silent at that. “Lotor?” she asked. Her sweet alto voice carried an upraise of apprehension—and hope. “He’s here?”

“Do not seek him out,” Zarkon commanded tiredly. “He is of a different security clearance than us anyway.” His voice turned with an odd form of jealousy and derision.

The young woman pouted. “Oh, but…” She listlessly tried to straighten her jumpsuit, biting her lip. Her breath hitched. “I’ve…I’ve wanted to at least speak to him for so long.”

Zarkon pulled on his work gloves, then reached up into the engine, his muscled arm flexing hard to undo a bolt. “It’s better if you don’t. And you know why.”

Allura seemed to curl in on herself then, her heart pounding. “You don’t understand,” she complained. “We were on good terms once. And I know, if I could just explain, then all will be—”

“—I do not wish to know the details of your relationship with him.” Zarkon’s voice cut hard. There was the clinking sound of a bolt falling to the ground. He grimaced, then reached up to pull off another bolt. “We may work together out of a common interest, daughter of Alfor, but you will _not_ address me as you would a friend.”

That shut her up. She pressed her lips together, her eyes suddenly burning hard. It seemed no matter what, her dealings with the Dalir family were always so complicated. “Of course,” she whispered. Her voice caught.

The man slowed in his work at the sound of distress from her.

And then his eyes hardened, and he continued on, clenching his jaw in pain. 

Allura eventually returned to a secondary task of removing the paneling from her side of the engine. Her heart still pounded as she blinked, a few tears streaking down her cheeks. She awkwardly brushed them away and did not speak again, suddenly feeling alien and out of place.

As she always did.

On her phone was an undeleted text message and several voicemails from one Lotor Dalir. His velvet voice had been halted in worry. “ _Allura? It’s an hour past, and I fear something has happened. Are you alright? Please call me back. I, ah…will return to the hotel shortly. I’ll wait for you there, if you can still meet tonight_.” 

* * *

Lotor stood at the entryway to the secret hangar, holding his pencils and his notebooks with the drawn alien alphabet. His face was tight with anxiousness as he peered beyond the window once more, to the great metal beast with a face.

It looked almost reptilian.

He imagined that the pilot within likely exhibited similar traits. The designs of blue and orange—chipped off and burnt in various places—were intentional, requiring an artistic eye.

Lotor puzzled over the mecha, its sharp and frightening features slowly muting within the general background of simply its pure design. It was a sleek monster, its lines streamlined. In some ways, with the structure of his eyes sockets, it reminded him of the lights of his Sincline motorcycle…

He chilled.

The goose-bumps rose on his skin as his blue eyes widened, now unable to decouple this strange machine’s design from his own, down to even his own blue and orange leather jacket. He back-stepped—only to run into another person. He startled further, grabbing on tightly to his notebooks, turning around in surprise.

Commander Samuel Holt gave a nervous laugh, raising up his hands. “Mr. Dalir, I’m sorry I snuck up on you.” He backstepped as well. His face appeared too tight with stress for his smile to feel relaxing. “I hope you’re not getting a case of cold feet?”

Lotor’s throat tightened. “Ah, no. I simply—was admiring the ship before us.”

“Of course.” The older man gave him a curious look, searching him, as if he did not believe such a simple tale. “It certainly suggests an incredible level of intelligence, doesn’t it.”

“Yes.” His voice strained. He managed a weak smile. “Perhaps in speaking with its pilot, I may yet unravel its secrets.”

“I doubt you will have much progress in that, Mr. Dalir.” The commander then hesitated. “You must understand, this pilot is _not_ well. His physical capabilities are limited due to significant nerve damage, and he is largely incomprehensible per to the violence of his reactions. Speaking with him may even inform your language decoding activities with _false_ associations.”

Lotor looked down at the notebooks in his arms. It struck him that he was about to make contact with a true alien lifeform. Was this numbness, to not shake in fear or anxiousness or excitement? He felt distant with himself, as if he were yet still in a dream. “I can handle particularly upset CEOs,” he confessed lightly. “And grabby fans. What makes your alien so special that you fear him?”

Holt swallowed down emotion. “Ah, well.” He nervously punched in his personal code into the keypad, and the hazard doors began to unlock. “That’s the thing, Mr. Dalir. Upon closer inspection, he’s _not_ particularly special. In a way I’ve never…seen before.”

The doors slid back, revealing the open air of the inner hangar. The scent of fire and quintessence hung heavily, striking Lotor’s nose in a way that he furrowed his brow, and his nose twitched. “I don’t understand what you mean, Commander Holt.”

“I should probably prepare you.” The man sighed, looking worn as he suddenly ran his hands through his hair. “It’s just…very difficult to explain.”

Lotor stepped foot into the hangar, and he felt as if he were a child, with his jeans and his blue and orange leather jacket. Several scientists in HAZMAT suits turned from their work on scraping meta from the mecha, staring at him with strange expressions.

Holt cut in before he could ask, “The fact is, Mr. Dalir—you bear a striking resemblance to this alien pilot. In ways. And it’s beyond the capabilities of science to explain why.” His voice rose up in a strangle. “Unless of course, one adheres to multiverse theory. But even then, that does not account for the inherent physical and physiological changes, as such theory assumes that we all would still present as _ourselves_ in these other universes…”

Lotor barely heard what he was saying. He turned back to Holt, his face tightening. “A resemblance?”

“Yes. This is why we hoped that _you_ might be able to ascertain the pilot’s language.” The older man walked along the well-lit path.

Lotor followed like a lost puppy, his eyes wide as he looked in every direction. There was deep energy in this room—far deeper than anything he had sensed in his life. It buzzed in the air. “Are you suggesting,” he asked distantly, “that I look like a reptile?”

That inspired a small chuckle from Samuel Holt. “No, not at all. And the pilot does not appear that way either. But for as similar as he is, he _is_ …different, in ways.”

The dark mecha loomed over them. 

It felt as though its dimmed, glowing eyes were tracking them somehow—that it was sentient.

Various heavily armed guards lined the pathway, holding advanced weaponry that not even Lotor recognized in design. His white brow knitted at the sight in concern. “Hm, I thought you said we were only working to build a hypergate.”

“We’re not sure what else we may encounter in deep-space,” the man admitted, a guilt in him. “We’ve been analyzing the ship’s circuitry in hopes that we’ll be prepared, but its more advanced systems require more than circuits.” They walked to the head of the mecha, which bore a deep hole in its helm, with sharp lights surrounding it. “The pilot rests within a cockpit in this space. I’ve already had medical services lessen his sedation so that you might be able to hold a coherent conversation, if he’s willing. But for your safety, he remains strapped to the cables. His strength is particularly unnatural, and his reflexes are quick.”

Holt then turned to the side, and gently waved him on, up the rigged stairs into the cockpit. “If he responds violently to you in any way, then I have to order you to leave. Do you understand? It would be for your own safety.”

“I understand.” Lotor’s voice grew halted, and he began to ascend the stars, into the brain of the beast, his heart beginning to pound. Even beneath his shoes, it felt as if the mecha could sense him. That it was watching.

And it was there, in the cockpit, that Lotor first caught sight of dark combat boots. Sleek armor. A tall and lithe body leaning back in the pilot’s chair. Matted, wild white hair in a twist.

A humanoid.

And then Lotor hesitantly walked to face the pilot, whose purple temples bore many wires. Several IVs ran back and forth from his bare arm, which was crusted with healing wounds from a blast. The pilot himself breathed in a ragged, slowly breath, his cracked lips opening to reveal a hint of sharp fangs. His eyes were open to the heavens, the sclerae yellow and nearly glowing in the lights.

The pilot’s arms and hands still twitched on occasion, his fingers tightly clenched around the control sticks for the mecha. As if…he either believed he was still flying or else was experiencing a nerve dead-lock.

Blue eyes suddenly snapped to him from within a half-burned face, still shining with salve.

And Lotor Dalir realized, his own eyes widening, that he was staring at himself. 

* * *

Allura Singh pouted at the punctured cable in her gloved hands. “It looks like we will need further replacements on this end as well,” she called out, turning the cable in dejection. “So much appears to have rusted.”

The voice of Zarkon Dalir echoed back from the other side of the shuttle. “I have logged it on our supplies list.”

She stood there for a time, staring at the rusted cable. It had once pumped multitudes of fuel through it, having carried probes to the planet of Mars. “We should strip the junction points too,” she murmured in worry. “It’s possible there may be rust contamination that we cannot see.”

“Very well, daughter of Alfor.”

Allura winced. “That title is so terribly formal. Must you always call me that?”

“I will not call you Miss Singh.”

“Just because your son did?”

There was a pause between them, and then a sigh. “…Yes.”

Allura set down the cable on a nearby table, her eyes hardening in pain. “You know, I did everything you asked of me, all in the name of _peace_.” She pushed the cable against others to make room for more. Her breath hitched. “I stopped seeing him because you forced my hand. And still you treat me like a…”

Her throat tightened up. She wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, looking down at her own dirty work overalls, falling silent.

Zarkon appeared from the other side of the great engine, his eyes dark, scarred face tight in a mix of pain and displeasure. “Is that to say you did as I asked for my sake, and _not_ because it was the right thing to do?”

Allura looked up, her eyes watering hard. “How in the world was it the _right_ thing to do?”

He looked down, grabbing for a tool. “You know the answer to that.”

Her throat tightened. “No,” she said, voice wavering. “You _think_ it’s right, but it’s not. What would it matter if he became involved with me? How corrupted do you honestly think I am?”

Dark red eyes flickered to her with a righteous pain. “Look in the mirror.”

Allura blinked. A tear slid down her cheek, and she awkwardly brushed it away before giving him a dark glare right back. “It doesn’t stop that I cared about him, and vice versa. Or that you still care for your wife, who is even more altered from quintessence than I am.”

The infamous and imposing Zarkon Dalir stepped closer, his hulking frame blocking the light. He raised a finger. Irritation edged into his voice. “Do not seek sympathy through crocodile tears, or invoke the name of my wife. If you cared for Lotor, you would not allow him to mix with you, when you _know_ what the outcome would be.” His face darkened in pain. “That you are a liability to him.” 

That did it. She backed away, shoving the punctured cable back in a fit of rage. It clinked hard with a terrible noise, and it inspired Zarkon’s spine to straighten.

Allura turned around, her breath hitching. She failed to speak again, instead walking off, pulling out the tie in her bun to fan her white hair around her as a curtain from the world. 

* * *

Back down in the hidden hangar, Lotor Dalir hesitated, swallowing hard. He sat down on a chair before the alien pilot, his own face slightly pale at the tables of medical supplies and needles. He delicately lowered his notebook onto his lap, raising his gaze to meet the alien pilot’s eyes. “Do you recognize me?” he asked softly, knowing how unlike it was for this pilot to understand him.

The injured man in the pilot chair inhaled a ragged breath, blinking. But his eyes were sharp and aware, and they were tracking his every movement. His frazzled, burnt fingers twitched on the controls again, clenching hard as some strange wave of overstimulation moved through him. A noise escaped him, and it strangled in his throat.

Lotor’s fingers tightened around his pen at the odd sound of his own voice hitching in pain.

The pilot exhaled again. And then he looked back at Lotor once more, his face haggard and suspicious.

Lotor Dalir felt a deep chill work through him. His white brows knitted together. “Are you in pain like this?”

More silence.

Lotor could not look away from the burns down the pilot’s face, which disrupted his brow and the shape of his face. He swallowed hard, then tried again. There was something to be said for a smile and soft, kind-sounding words, he imagined. “Do they treat you well?”

Those alien, slit eyes roved over his own form, intelligently inspecting Lotor’s white hair, rounded ears, and the stylistic block details of his leather jacket. And then suddenly, those eyes began to mist. The pilot’s breath began to shudder in and out, and his cracked lips pulled unnaturally. But he did not speak.

Within the wild locks around him were—Lotor noted in surprise—elfin ears. They flicked with sound.

Lotor leaned forward, still pale but earnest. “I see the drug names upon your IV—they are giving you significant pain medication That means they do not want you to suffer. And the salve on your face…they want you to _heal_. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

The pilot inhaled again.

“I can help you,” Lotor encouraged, his blues eyes wide. “I don’t understand what you are or how any of this is possible, but surely you see yourself reflected in me. As I see myself in you.” His fingers tightened around the pencil in his hand.

The pilot’s cracked lip pulled back, and suddenly he bared sharp fangs. His eyes darkened in an exhausted warning.

The human man fell silent, sitting back up with a stiffening of his spine and a raising of the hair on the nape of his neck.

The alien’s arms suddenly strained against his heavy bonds. He was upset.

Lotor’s voice broke unsteadily. “Please, I—I can’t help you if you do not work with me in some way.”

The alien hissed at him suddenly, his burned face pulling back to reveal a full set of sharp teeth. A noise rumbled through his chest, his hands twitching unnaturally on the ship controls to slip away from them, his large fists clenching.

Lotor stood up, haunted. For he saw his own face in a demon.

There was a tense silence between them.

The alien man’s breath hitched suddenly, and he leaned against his chair in immediate exhaustion, his eyes beholding Lotor wearily, honing in on the pencil in his hand.

Lotor hesitated once more, then dared to sit down, following the alien’s gaze. He pressed his lips together, then raised up his pencil. “This? Is this what so disturbs you?”

The alien blinked, narrowing his eyes.

“It is only a writing utensil, not a weapon or even a medical instrument,” Lotor said, his heart pounding as he managed a weak laugh. “Ah. One second. I shall show you.” And then he opened his notebook and began to shakily draw a little doodle of a small man with a funny expression.

The alien watched intently, still tense.

And then the pilot’s eyes widened slightly when Lotor turned the notebook around, face earnest.

“See?” Lotor said, voice straining in a desperate attempt at ease. “A drawing.”

Elfin ears flicked back. Recognition lit the pilot’s gaze. His palms began to unfurl, and he stared at the silly, little drawing with a furrow in his brow, then looked back at Lotor in confusion.

“Maybe you don’t know about modern cartoons,” Lotor declared softly, babbling for the sake of conversation. “But we shall remedy that. And I shall come to know your language as you come to know my culture. Also, I am very good at drawing cats. I shall draw my own if you give me a moment.”

And the human man turned to another page, quickly sketching. The alien watched again, increasingly searching Lotor with a fascination.

Before long, Lotor was able to raise up a shaded sketch of one merry Kova snoozing in a bed. “This is my cat,” he declared proudly. “He’s either my pet, or I’m his, but regardless—we get along quite well.”

The tired pilot stared at the image. And then suddenly, he broke hard in a full recognition, as if his insanity had drained from him. His burned face cracked, and his lips pulled back in pain. His eyes misted. 

Lotor watched in horror as the alien began to cry, that familiar voice hitching up in a strangled moan of sorrow.

* * *

Allura Singh sat on a sidewalk outside the great government complex, watching the sun set as she blearily wiped her eyes, her breath still hitching. Her lips quivered.

.

_“Moosh-moosh-am,” came the soft, sultry pout of Lotor Dalir, his breath a soft puff against her ear. “Come to bed with me. You are falling asleep in your chair. This is no way for a princess to spend her night.”_

.

The surrounding darkness streaked with purples and oranges, and she chilled with the increasing cold of the evening. But nothing could stop the cold pumping through all of her veins, and the heat at even the thought of Lotor Dalir. The forbidden man. The one she pushed away.

She had sudden visions of Lotor working with her, instead of Zarkon. She could imagine the boy wearing overalls without a shirt beneath them, unintentionally streaking some oil down a cheek—his velvet laugh echoing as he rolled around on a scooter in procrastination and then somehow managed to fix an old engine while no one was looking.

A pain crunched through her shoulders at even the thought of such joy—of feeling herself lean back against strong shoulders as long fingers trailed beneath the hem of her pants, as warm lips pressed against her temple—

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself, voice aching.

Instead, she was stuck with his father, who had done everything in his power to keep her and Lotor apart, vehement against her family line.

Against her own DNA.

She swallowed hard, looking down at her fingers in betrayal and pain, damning her own inheritance of white hair, which marked her as corrupted. As unlikely to age without health complications. She clenched her fingers, feeling the strength in her own body. A furious will to prove Zarkon Dalir wrong.

And to speak with Lotor once and for all, that she had never wanted to stand him up.

* * *

Meanwhile, the alien pilot cried. His burned face twisted, crinkling his bandages as he lightly jerked against his restraints. His lips cracked open. A rough, hoarse voice escaped him. “ _Ko-va_.”

Lotor Dalir’s fingers tightened around the pencil. “Kova?” he repeated. “You know that name?”

The alien rasped out an unsteady breath. His handsome face had pulled in great pain, a pure, unadulterated sorrow in him. It seemed as if he were awakening from a massive nightmare, lost and confused as to up or down, or left to right. Tears streamed down his ruined face as he tried to blink them away, only for more to appear.

The human man lowered his pad of paper, eyes wide.

He’d been prepared for violence. But not this—not a genuine emotional meltdown.

Lotor swallowed hard, frazzled. “Ah, I am—I’m sorry. I can…hide the drawing, we can try something else.” And he tore the picture off from the pad of paper.

The pilot hissed at him. One of the MIND LINK nodes fell from his temple as his face pulled great pain. And for all of his injuries, he managed to snap one of the metal restraints.

Lotor flinched back, eyes wide as alarms blared.

The sound upset the alien even more, those elfin ears of his pulling hard against his skull as he keened in a cry of pain. His face distorted, his lips trembling.

In a blur, HAZMAT-wearing military escorts flooded the cockpit, leveling weapons against the alien and grabbing for Lotor.

The human man froze, unable to look away from his alien counterpart, whose clawed hand was not reaching out in violence—but in desperation for the drawing that he had crumpled.

The pilot’s eyes were brimming with tears. “ _Ko-va_ —”

Lotor turned to the soldiers, his eyes hardening. “Wait—stop this, please.” His voice strained as they continued to push him back out of the cockpit. He strengthened his voice. “Stop it—he’s not hurting anyone. Do not shoot him—!” 

It was then that more footsteps echoed from the makeshift stairs into the helm of the mecha. An older woman with brown hair hurried in, wearing a HAZMAT suit with her hood down. “Mr. Dalir,” she greeted in a rush.

He watched her run past, in loss. 

Behind them, the pilot’s breath hitched in pain as a soldier jammed a taser against his neck, distorting his thoughts and movements. His entire body arched up against his restraints.

The woman’s voice tightened. “Stand down—Mr. Dalir is secure. I said, _stand down_ and shut off those weapons. You’re making it worse.”

The soldiers dutifully pulled away, and Lotor watched in consternation as the human woman approached the pilot cautiously, watching his free arm in wariness but managing a tight smile nonetheless. “There’s nothing to fear,” she said to him evenly. “I won’t let them hurt you again. We just need to remain calm, both of us.”

Upon the seat, the pilot’s limbs still twitched. His breath came in unsteady gasps, his wild eyes focused upon her.

His outstretched hand lowered in a defeat.

She swallowed hard, then hesitantly pulled a little bottle from her pocket. “I’m sorry. It’s—it’s alright,” she said gently. “I’m not here to hurt you. You remember me. You know that I have something you want.” She turned the bottle so he could recognize its design. “See? It’s the good stuff. It’s very, very good, and you’ll feel much better if you take some right now.”

The alien’s breath hitched. His clawed fingers set back down on the console as he stared at the label. Despite the twitch in his limbs and his irritation at being stunned, he calmed slightly, staring in open want for that bottle.

The woman bit her lip in worry and awe. “You’re far more aware than you were before.”

From across the cockpit, Lotor watched, and his eyes narrowed curiously. “Who are you, and how does he know what that bottle is if he does not know our language?”

Her brown eyes flickered up to him, then back down at the array of IVs hanging off the alien. “He recognizes the pattern on it,” she said, voice straining. “’I, ah, injected myself with it once. To show him it’s harmless. It’s a nonaddictive pain reliever and should calm him down.” She added in a frazzle, “I’m Colleen Holt.”

Lotor quirked a brow. “Someone with your last name warned that this pilot was too violent for anyone to communicate with him. Yet, here you are.”

Colleen quickly measured out a dosage of the pain reliever for the breathless alien, careful to remain out of range of his claws. “Samuel Holt is my husband. And yes, our friend here is usually very unhappy. But he trusts me well enough for this.” A great stress pulled at the wrinkle upon the corner of her mouth. “He grows upset if I stay too long.” 

“If he is so aware, is it not barbaric to keep him in this state, then?” Lotor demanded lightly, a slight protective edge turning his voice. “On this ship, bound in restraints?”

She hesitated, lowering the vial. “We’ve tried to move him, but he seizes from excessive nerve stimulation. So…we’ve had to bring the hospital to him. I believe the composition of this ship may be helping him discharge an excess of the blast that struck him. And it’s a familiar environment, besides.”

Lotor’s breath caught oddly. “But it was… _months_ ago that this ship would have crash-landed in Russia. Do you mean he’s been like this, the whole time?” He moved from beyond the soldiers, waving his hand. “Does he not heal?” 

In the chair, the exhausted, tear-eyed pilot closed his eyes, his purple face slacking as the pain medication and sedative rocked him into a blissful unawareness.

Colleen exhaled in a mix of relief and worry. “He was far worse before. I believe his body diverts energy to his worst injuries first. But we’ve hit a plateau where the energy disrupting his nerves is…beyond our medical understanding. And with his mental state, we can’t ask for help or hope to understand.” Her eyes flickered to his. “But I heard him say a word to you. Something _you_ recognized.”

The human man’s face twisted. He looked back down at his strange counterpart from beyond the stars. “Yes. The name of my cat.” Even the sound of it made his voice strain in a mix of consternation—and hilarity. “Of all things.”

But Colleen did not seem so amused. “That might not be a coincidence,” she warned gently. “Our friend here looks an awful lot like you. And you’re the first person he’s spoken a word to at all.”

It was beginning to hit Lotor, what all was at stake.

Learning this pilot’s language wasn’t just about learning how to use a hypergate.

It was about trying to heal the pilot as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Nov4ForLotor 2020! I started this drabble as a nod to one of my favorite shows on Netflix, Lost in Space (highly recommend it if you haven't seen it yet). But as I started writing this drabble, it felt something like a....reverse Quantum Entanglement? If any of you have read that before? Either way, given the focus on not just one (1) Lotor but two Lotors in the same story, I felt it would be fun to post this drabble for Lotor Appreciation Day, haha. Preparing this for upload has also been a distraction from my election anxiety, oof. 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts and if you'd like to see more, thanks! Hoping to work on, ah, all of my writing projects more consistently as we move through November and December!


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